


Stanford, the Six-Fingered Kid

by Cutiebat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Ableism, Child Abuse, Christmas, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Gen, Hanukkah, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:47:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28302561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutiebat/pseuds/Cutiebat
Summary: "Every December after that, Rudolph was all Ford could think about. How unique he was. How everyone made fun of him. But in the end, it didn’t matter! Because soon, they all saw how special Rudolph was and how he saved Christmas with his nose! Now everyone loves him! And someday, the same thing will happen to Ford."(Press X to doubt)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Stanford, the Six-Fingered Kid

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Kripmas and Happy Hanakoo, everyone! I got it done for the major holiday that commercials love!! I always thought Ford would love this song as a kid. And then hate it.  
> So yeah.  
> TW: child abuse, religion, holidays, ableism

The snow that had fluttered down last night has finally calmed. Cardinals and blue jays were tweeting, perhaps competing over territory. The air was crisp and cool and created funny little clouds every time you sighed, whether it was a happy sigh or a sad one. School was almost out for winter break, but not yet. There was one final event to be held before all the little kids would be released to spend time with their families. Inside the small theatre, the elementary children were all standing, organized by class and height. All of them were singing Christmas Carols in front of their parents and loved ones. They sang Jingle Bells, Holly Jolly Christmas, and a couple of biblical classics too.

Once it was to time to sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, a particular voice rose above the rest.

It was Stanford Pines, now in the second grade. He was swinging his fists with glee, one of them clasped with his twin brother, Stanley. Truth be told, they were all supposed to hold hands together, but no one wanted to hold his. 

For years, Ford wondered why everyone acted so… strange whenever they saw his hands. Why? What’s wrong with them? It wasn’t until first grade when a classmate pointed out that he had six fingers on each hand, and everyone proceeded to make fun of him. What’s wrong with having six fingers? Why is it so bad that he happens to have a couple extra? 

Why didn’t his hands look like everyone else’s?

He remembered he came home crying that day alongside an angry Stanley.

_“Stanford? What’s wrong, dearie?” Ma asked, kneeling down beside him._

_“Quit crying! I’m trying to read the paper,” Pa scolded, sitting on top of the living room chair. Ma shot him a glare before returning back to Ford._

_“Come now. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”_

_“Everyone made fun of him!” Shouted Stanley. “They all picked on his ‘cause he got six fingers! Bunch a’ jerks.” He crossed his arms and glared at the floor off to his left. Ma stared in shock and softly gazed at Ford._

_“...Is this true?” After a bit of hesitation and some nudging from Stan, Ford nodded, sniffling._

_“T-they,” he paused to snort some mucus in, embarrassed at the mess he created, emotional and physical. “They s-said that I was a f-freak. A-and they c-called me names and stuff. They grabbed m-me and poked my h-hand a lot. A-and… And-”_

_Words didn’t work anymore for Stanford. He was too busy trying to remember how to breathe through the hiccups. Stanley patted his back in reassurance while Ma tried to hush him, bringing him in for a hug. After a couple seconds of crying, Pa stood up and approached Ford, towering over him._

_“Quit yer crying,” he growled. “Have some self-respect.”_

_“Filbrick! Ford is just upset that he’s not fitting in at school!” Said Ma._

_“Well, what does he expect? You figured a genius his age would finally learn by now that having six fingers on each hand ain’t normal!”_

_“Fil, he’s just a kid!” Ma stood up, facing Pa. Stanley took this as an opportunity to slip him and his brother away from another fight and let Ford cry in peace in their bedroom. Though the paper-thin walls do nothing to stop the shouts, shrieks, and curses, it’s a much better alternative than standing in front of them._

_Stan rubbed his twin’s back, trying to help him slow his breathing and wrapped him up in blankets. For several minutes of trying to comfort Ford, followed by hours of skipped dinner, sneaking off to the fridge to pick up snacks, and snuggling together reading comic books, two thoughts repeated themselves in Stan’s mind like a mantra._

  * _The world is a cruel and unforgiving place that hates things that are different._


  * _Protect Stanford. No matter what._



Ford began to hate his polydactylism, thanks to the first day at school. The first of many, many insults, jabs, shoves, and fights started by Stanley, his knight in shining armor. There was a distinct episode where Crampelter, that god-awful pain in the neck, attempted to perform an amputation on him with scissors during nap time. Needless to say, no one was allowed to use scissors for a week, and Crampelter’s mom made him stay home for a couple days. Ford only knew about it through rumors, though, since he isolated himself for a long while. It took a lot of bargaining from Stan and Ma and a lot of lecturing from Pa to get him out. 

Soon, it was winter break when Ford listened to Rudolph. Not hear, but actually listen to and understand the lyrics. It stuck with him. For years. He grabbed it with his tiny little hands and refused to let go. He begged Pa to buy a Christmas carol vinyl just so he could repeat the song for hours, constantly rewinding it back once it ended. He wrote Santa a letter, asking for the book, a personal record player, a book about reindeer, a pair of antlers to wear, and a favor. Let Rudolph lead the way on the sleigh ride, and after he’s done with his hard work, give him the tastiest hay to eat, the coziest of blankets, and many friends to play with. 

He knows the song by heart. When they came back to school after vacation, when the bullying happened again, Ford sang it to himself while Stan tended to his wounds and cursed their fellow classmates.

Now he is standing proud and tall, shouting the melody from the top of his lungs. Stanley soon joined in while wearing a huge grin. Ma looked a little nervous from the crowd but she kept her smile on anyway. Pa retained his stoic expression, arms crossed like always.

Then, they were finished. All of the kids bowed, raised their hands up in the air, and bowed again, taking in the applause. Everyone skipped off to their parents, Ford especially.

“Did you hear me? I sang really loud!” He shouted excitedly.

“Yeah. Don’t do it again,” Pa grumbled. Ma slapped the back of her hand against his chest.

“Yes, we heard you. Now let’s get home. We got some dinner to eat.” Ford felt his smile waver at the thought of dinner, always a hassle. But the millisecond of discomfort didn’t sway his eagerness. He hopped away with Stan to the car, buckled in by Ma, and off they went.

Hanukkah came in quick, along with a special surprise.

“I think you’ll like this one, Fordsy,” said Ma, with a smile. Pa smiled too, a rare sight to be treasured. Ford gazed at them, wondering what it could be. Pa got up from the chair, walked away for a couple of moments, and brought back a huge box wrapped in green paper. He set it down in front of Ford with a grunt and sat back in his chair. Ford stared at him before shifting his gaze back to the box. Carefully, afraid he might break something so precious, he undid the string and unfolded the paper. Once he saw the contents, his eyes lit up and he gasped.

It was a rocking chair, modeled after a reindeer. And not just any reindeer. The nose was painted red.

“It’s Rudolph!” He shouted, jumping up and down, flapping his hands. Stanley laughed with him before doing the same. They always did this whenever Ford got too excited so he wouldn’t feel alone. He heard some grumbling from behind him.

“Alright, alright,” Pa said. He smacked Stan’s hands with a rolled-up newspaper. “Enough of that.” He flopped back down into his chair, newspaper now open. He was grouchy again. Ma smiled at the twins, face tense.

“Why don’t you test it out, sweetie?” She suggested, gesturing at his shiny, new toy. Ford nodded, grinning while biting his tongue, unable to contain his eagerness. Stan opened up the rest of the presents for them, ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ at their gifts. Some of them were books, a couple toy cars, a paddle ball, a pair of socks.

All of which Ford pointedly ignored. He was too busy riding his rocking-reindeer. 

Every December after that, Rudolph was all Ford could think about. How unique he was. How everyone made fun of him. But in the end, it didn’t matter! Because soon, they all saw how special Rudolph was and how he saved Christmas with his nose! Now everyone loves him! And someday, the same thing will happen to Ford. 

It didn’t happen in second grade, though. Nor third grade. Nor fourth, fifth. After the first day of sixth grade, Ford began to have doubts. Why didn’t anyone, outside of his family, appreciate him? Nothing has changed, except for the teachers who have gotten meaner. He just wanted to learn and play. And occasionally correct the misquotes and such the teachers accidentally teach. He was just trying to help!

Suddenly, Rudolph didn’t seem all that promising of a tale anymore, but the doubt disappeared after the Pines family went to go watch the Rankin/Bass film at the local theatre, replaying some Christmas Classics. The tiny flame of hope has been rekindled in his heart, and Ford felt just a bit braver when they came back from break. 

But like all the years before, nothing changed. Just mean kids. Mean adults. No praises except from his family. 

Then it was middle school. Maybe things will be different, right? Wrong. If anything had changed, it changed for the worse. The bullying got intense, the teachers were strict, Stan struggled in school, Pa acted harsher, Ma got too invested in his social life (or lack thereof), and the twins always, _always_ , got in trouble. All thanks to Stan and his antics, of course.

And if that wasn’t enough, Pa had signed them up for boxing lessons. All in the name of ‘manning them up.’ If Ford could be honest with his Pa, he never understood manliness, but Stan sure seemed to. He definitely took it to heart, whereas Ford often faked illness to skip out on practice. Stan even began to look a lot less like Ford and more like one of the bullies. In high school, he ditched the button-up shirts and bowties for t-shirts, traded in his pressed pants for ripped jeans, and stole some hair gel from Ma to slick it back. Now anyone could tell the difference between the two, making Ford stick out like a sore thumb even more.

Nothing got better. It only got worse. Ford started to hate Rudolph now.

Why did Rudolph get all the praise for his uniqueness but not him? When do the bullies start treating him nicely? When does he get to date a girl like he’s supposed to? Why does no one appreciate him?

The praise does happen, though. Not in the way he was hoping for, but at this point, he’ll take anything. Having six fingers on each hand doesn’t attract niceties, but having good grades does. Awards piled on, donning his shelf in all their shimmery glimmer. Bullies don’t seem to care, and it seems Stanley has taken it upon himself to become one to the random student who happened to be nearby. He must be bored and also very tired of being picked on. 

Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting that stupid song on the radio to shut up.

“Hey, why’d you turn it off? That’s your favorite!” Cried Stanley, lying on the couch. 

“No, it isn’t,” snapped Ford. “It’s a stupid song.”

“Woah, don’t tell that to the Ford in elementary.”

“The Ford in elementary was a fool, alright? An idiot, believing that cute little tale of a reindeer with a big bright nose who saves the day and everyone will love him for it.”

“H-Hey, now, Sixer-” Stan stood up but was soon cut off by Ford.

“Sixer! Sixer! It’s always about my hands! No one likes these useless little digits here, Stan! Oh, but everyone loves Rudolph and his shiny, red nose! He’s special!” Stanley raised his hands.

“Hey, calm down! I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t know you hated it that much.”

“Of course, you don’t. You don’t know anything.” Stan couldn’t say anything after that stinging remark. Ford took it as his cue that he won this argument and stormed to their room to sulk. He crawled into his bed and cried. Not loudly, because then he’d hear a lecture about how boys aren’t supposed to cry. But he could at least let the tears flow just this once.

Hours later, in the darkness, Ford heard the door open and closed behind someone. Soft footsteps slowly padded in before a hand gently placed itself on his shoulder. 

“ ‘m sorry, Ford,” it mumbled. Then he heard the sounds of sheets rustling underneath his bunk bed, and then silence took over the room again.

Weeks passed, and Stan made it a point to always switch channels on the radio whenever that dreaded song came up. Ford never touched his vinyl record. Instead, he asked for a vinyl of the Nutcracker and a couple of books on astronomy, creative writing, and Nikola Tesla’s biography. 

Then Stan was gone. Well, of course, he was. He brought it upon himself. It wasn’t an accident that he broke Ford’s school project. That he destroyed his future. That he ruined his chances of getting the appreciation he was denied for so long. 

And now he’s alone. On his own. There are no ‘Sixers,’ no ‘Poindexters,’ no high-sixes to be shared, no inside jokes about the bullies. Nothing. Just silence and the pressure to be the best son for Ma and Pa. 

Because now he’s their only son.

The Backupsmore orientation came and went. Hard classes crowded Ford, but Ford studied harder and came out victorious with straight A’s. Soon, it was winter. But rather than come home and spend time with his estranged family, Ford stayed at the college dorms and used his time to study for tests required to skip classes. Whenever he wasn’t studying, he was eating or wasting his time sleeping. Of course, he would eventually run out of food and had to go outside.

Outside to those dreaded supermarkets. As if they weren’t bad enough, with crowds of people, rancid odors, and bright lights, they always take it upon themselves to repeatedly shriek those ear-bleeding Christmas songs.

Ford dressed up in his sweater, scarf, gloves (with a hole in them for the pinky), and noise-canceling headphones he stole from the shop class. Honestly, going to the supermarket shouldn’t feel like heading off to war. But if he had the choice, he’d have the groceries shipped to his dorm. Wouldn’t that be the dream?

Another year passed, luckily without that stupid song and without any Christmas incident. He and his classmate, Fiddleford, got close and became best buds, filling the void in Ford’s chest left by Stan. He was down-to-earth like his twin and listened to him go on and on about whatever topic of interest he could rant about. But he also matched Ford’s wit, and they bonded over their shared interest of DD&MD, electrical engineering, robotics, mathematics, and whatever their nerdy selves could lay their hands on. 

Life was perfect.

Until Ford discovered how much of a Christmas-fanatic Fidds was.

“Gosh, can you believe it? Just two more weeks of finals, and then it will be Christmas!” Fidds shouted, hanging up lights in their dorm, the two now roommates. Ford had just walked in through the door, another late-night at the library, only to meet garish decorations cover their living space, floor to ceiling. He dropped his bag in shock, unable to tear his eyes away from this holiday nightmare.

Fake snow was taped to the walls and piled in the corners. Fidds replaced their space-themed bedsheets with Christmas ones. The posters of famous scientists have Santa beards, hats, and elf ears. There was even a frickin’ Christmas tree in the corner of the room!

But the line hadn’t been crossed yet. The radio may be playing those stupid carols, but it at least wasn’t _that_ carol.

“Fidds, what are you doing? We’ll be out of these dorms soon,” Ford reminded. Fidds shrugged.

“We still got some time. Let’s just have some fun, alright, Fordsy?” With the last light hung up, he stepped down from the ladder and walked over to an open box. “Here, let’s hang these up. I know you’re Jewish, but you can celebrate Christmas secularly with me, right?”

Again, with the puppy-dog eyes. He always pulled that on Ford. And Ford always lost to them. First, it was a pottery class, then it was banjo night, then it was that trip to the bar, then it was for the hippie concert. Ford was about to resist until he looked inside the box he was holding.

It was filled with ornaments. Not just any ornaments, but they were the kind that was perfect for Ford and Fidds. There was one shaped like an anatomically-correct heart, a brain, an atom structure, a UFO, a laser-gun, a Santa with nerd glasses, and that was just the ones Ford could see. 

“And that’s just the beginning!” Fidds said excitedly, handing the box to Ford and walking over to the bunk bed. He knelt down underneath and pulled out another box, now wrapped in shiny, silver foil. 

“Here,” was all he said, presenting it to Ford. He stared at it, obviously a Christmas present for him.

“B-But,” he stared, but Fidds interjected.

“Ah-ah! I know it’s a little early, but trust me.” And with that baffling statement, Ford sat down on the bunk bed and placed the box of ornaments on the floor beside him. Fiddleford sat on the bed with him and handed Ford the gift with a gentle smile. He stared at it, wondering what it was. He peeled away the paper and opened the box inside. 

It was a Menorah, complete with eight candles and a matchbox.

“... Fidds,” Ford whispered.

“I know Christmas is the only holiday I know of. I understand Hanukkah about as much as I understand Chinese! But, you’ve always been a great teacher, and I’ve always dragged you around, makin’ you do all these favors for me. I thought it’d be time I return the same sentiment to you.”

Ford could only stare at either Fidds or the Menorah, struggling to understand his friend’s kindness. Seconds must’ve turned into minutes because Fiddleford was starting to look apprehensive. Ford cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he finally said. “Really, this means a lot to me.”

“Gosh, really? I mean, it’s no big deal. The least I could do for you,” Fidds replied, scratching his chin with a bashful smile. 

“Come now. This is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received! You have no idea how much I appreciate-” But he cut himself off.

That damn song, the one he’d be trying to avoid every year, began to play on the radio. He immediately stood up from the bed and shut the damn thing off.

“Ford?” Fidds asked, his eyes wide. “What’s wrong?” Ford whirled around, now realizing his impertinence.

“I-I,” he stuttered, excuses failing him. “I just… I just don’t really like that song.” Fiddleford looked like he had more questions to ask, none Ford felt like answering. He cut him off before he could open his mouth.

“Come on,” he muttered, shrugging on a coat. “There’s more to Hanukkah than just a candle set.” Fidds must’ve seen the ‘Don’t ask me questions’ sign handing over Ford’s head. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have played along and refuse to leave the room with Ford. 

But here they were, walking to a Jewish corner store, looking for Dreidels, gelts, and ingredients to make latkes in the school’s kitchen. Fidds would later claim that this was a very enlightening experience, cracking up Ford. Unbeknownst to him, Fidds has made it a point to switch channels or talk over the radio whenever Rudolph came on.

Years flew by. A grant, a cabin in the woods, anomalies, science experiments, a muse, a friend, a foe, a broken relationship, a portal, a fight, and then thirty long years of constant battling and struggling to find his own place. All of which ended after an apocalyptic event, endless apologies, and overdue gratitude. 

Stan and Ford, bond restored, came to California during December to visit Dipper and Mabel, the first holiday event the old men have celebrated together in over forty years.

“Wait, you guys celebrate Hanukkah _and_ Christmas?” Stan asked, incredulously.

“Yep!” Shouted Mabel, knitting the last sweater for everyone. In the living room, the entire family relaxed with a cup of hot cocoa, save for the sweaterless Shermie, who was running late. 

“I don’t know if Stan and I got enough gifts for two holidays,” mumbled Ford, waiting for his turn on the Dreidel with Dipper and the parents. Dipper’s father chuckled.

“Well, it wouldn’t matter either way. Not with Cheapy-the-Cheapskate over here,” he joked, pointing a thumb at Stan. 

“Hey,” Stan shouted, playfully scowling back. “I had to fix the portal somehow and money wasn’t just gonna fall into my lap or anything.” 

“You’re still a cheapskate,” Dipper pointed out. 

“Yeah, Stanley,” said their mother. “Having a scientist for an uncle is bad enough.”

Ford sputtered in mock disbelief, laughter erupting from everybody. It ended as soon as Mabel jumped from the floor.

“Oh my gosh, guys! Look!” Mabel shouted, pointing at the TV. Ford turned and saw what he hadn’t seen in decades.

“Hey, Rudolph! My favorite!” Dipper said, scooting up next to Mabel. “Grunkle Ford! Ever seen this one?” He was about to answer until Stan stood up from the couch.

“Come on, kids. Ford’s a little old for this one.”

“What?” whined Mabel. “But it’s a classic!”

“Yeah, and you watched Ducktective with us before! Why can’t Ford watch Rudolph with us?”

“Stan,” Ford said, effectively stopping Stan from arguing. He knows why he’s turning Ford away from the film. But it’s been so long and so much has changed. Maybe it was about time to watch it for the sake of nostalgia.

“I don’t mind at all watching this,” he said softly, staring at his twin. Stan gaped at him for a moment before shrugging and flopping back onto the sofa. Ford wrapped his arms around his niblings and cuddled them as they watched the stop-motion picture. It was a stupid story and he was stupid for believing it to be true, that it could happen to him. But despite its saccharine nature, nostalgia has a weird way of turning something so sappy into a charming story.

Nighttime came in and the kids were sent off to bed. Everyone retreated to their rooms. All except for Ford, who decided to camp outside on the back porch, sipping on the last bit of hot chocolate. He watched the clouds created by his hot breath, the stars twinkling in the sky, and listened to the wind rustling the trees. In rare moments of peace like these, his mind was still. No math equations, no inner fights, no problems to solve, no moral dilemmas.

Just. Silence.

Said silence was broken, though, by the sound of the back door pushing open, its hinges creaking. Ford felt his fight-or-flight reflexes kicking in but quieted them. _You’re safe. Bill is dead. You’re not trapped between dimensions. There are no monsters or aliens after you. You’re home, safe and sound._ He turned his attention to see Stan, wrapped up in blankets, another one folded under his arms.

“Hey, Poindexter,” he murmured, a somber smile on his face. Ford gave a smile back.

“Hey,” he replied. Stan sat down next to him, wrapping the quilt around Ford’s shoulders. Ford tugged at the edges closer around himself, grateful for the bit of warmth.

“You doin’ alright?” asked Stanley.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, uh, the movie and all. You didn’t have to watch it just because the kids wanted to.”

“It’s okay. I wanted to.” That definitely took Stan by surprise.

“Really? I thought you hated that film!” Ford chuckled.

“I do. Maybe not as much as before, but still. Even so, I was… curious. Curious to see if I’d feel anything different watching it now.” Seconds passed and Ford rubbed the rim of his mug with his thumb, the tip now red thanks to the cold. If they stay outside any longer, Ford would get frostbite. _I really should’ve used those gloves Mabel made for me._

“Well,” Stan mumbled. “Do you? Feel any different, I mean.” Ford shrugged.

“Not sure.” Stan nodded. Emotions are a pain to deal with. They can handle it later.

“You know,” said Ford, bringing in Stan’s attention again. “I used to love that film. You remember that I’m sure. I loved the song too and I loved Rudolph and anything to do with reindeer. Because…” he paused to lick his lips, unsure of how to word his next sentence.

“Because, I thought… that eventually, people would like my fingers. They would like my hands. I would be useful and no one would pick on me anymore.”

Stan nodded, already knowing the obvious truth. But it wasn’t a matter of teaching Stan something new. It was a matter of lifting the weight off of Ford’s chest. So Stanley stayed quiet and listened.

“Of course, it never happened,” Ford chuckled without humor. “But then again, I did sort of become useful. I used to think I was smart-”

“Ford, you are smart,” Stan said, cutting him off. Ford shook his head.

“I wasn’t smart enough to see through Bill. He took advantage of me. Calling me special, unique, underappreciated. The exact thing I’ve been wanting to hear all my life. But he didn’t appreciate me. He just saw me as… as useful.” Stan suppressed an indigent growl at Bill, secretly wishing he would come back just so he could punch him again. 

“Eh, people only like weirdness if they can use it for their own gain. You ever seen those videos? Those ‘disabled prodigies’ or whatever?”

“No, but I think I see where you’re going with this.” Stan waved a dismissive hand.

“Yeah, they’re all over the internet. Savants and such. An autistic kid in Uganda who can recreate life-like drawings of cities from memory. An athlete who lost his leg but now runs 10k marathons. A blind person who uses echolocation to get by. Same crap over and over.”

“They sound amazing,” sighed Ford.

“They are. Meanwhile, everyone else lags behind because they can’t keep up with these heroes. Society expects them to be awesome. But they can’t. They’re not supposed to be awesome. They’re supposed to be human.” Ford hummed, a thoughtful look shining in his eyes. Stan glanced at him and felt himself tremble.

“Aw geez. I’m sorry. I was ranting. You were probably wanting some peace and quiet, right? I’ll get out of your way.” Stan stood, only to stumble once Ford grabbed him by the arm to pull him back down.

“No! It’s not that! You’re right. I-” Ford swallowed a lump in his throat. “T-Thank you. I needed to hear that.” Stan stared at him, unsure of what to say. He awkwardly cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Ford wrapped an arm around his shoulders and snuggled close. They spent the next hour or so looking up at the stars, watching the first bit of snow flutter in.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay safe, y'all.


End file.
